The war pavilion stank of salt, sweat, and sour wine.
Daemon Targaryen stood over the campaign table like a conqueror—which, in fairness, he nearly was. The Stepstones lay spread before him in carved wood and painted cloth: a chain of shit-stained rocks that had cost him three years, two thousand men, and whatever shreds of his brother's patience he'd possessed. The Crabfeeder's forces were marked in black. His own in red. The mathematics were finally, *finally*, turning favorable.
"Bloodstone is ours," Daemon said, moving a red marker across the map with the casual arrogance of a man who'd won it himself. Which he had. Mostly. "The Crabfeeder's pulled back to Torturer's Deep. Coward's dug himself into those fucking caves like a—"
"Like a man who knows he's losing," Corlys Velaryon interrupted smoothly. The Sea Snake stood opposite him, silver-haired and sun-dark, looking every inch the legend sailors whispered about in Pentos and Volantis. "He's consolidating. Smart. Stupid men charge. Smart men turtle and wait for you to make mistakes."
"I don't make mistakes."
"You made Craghas Drahar." Corlys gestured at the map. "Three years ago you promised me the Stepstones in three months. Now we're grinding through caves, losing men to traps and disease, and the Triarchy's had time to send—"
"More ships. Yes. I have *eyes*, Corlys." Daemon's tone could have frozen wine. "And when those ships arrive, Caraxes will turn them to ash and memory. Dragons don't lose to fucking *merchants*."
Corlys said nothing. He'd learned, over three years of this partnership, when to let the prince exhaust himself with words.
Outside, the camp sprawled across the black stone beaches of Bloodstone in organized chaos. Cookfires. Weapon-sharpening. The low murmur of soldiers who'd survived another day and didn't quite believe their luck. Somewhere, a man was singing a filthy song about a Lysene whore. Another was vomiting. War smelled the same everywhere.
"The Crabfeeder won't come out," Corlys said finally. "Not for you. Not for me. Not even for Caraxes. He's learned. He'll bleed us in those caves until the Triarchy sends enough gold to buy every sellsword between here and Qarth."
"Then we starve him out."
"We don't have time."
"Then we *make* time."
"With what? Songs? Threats? Your legendary Targaryen *charm*?"
Daemon's eyes—pale purple, vicious—locked on Corlys. The Sea Snake had seen that look before. It usually preceded something stupid, brave, or both.
The tent flap burst open.
A runner stumbled in—one of Corlys's men, a Velaryon cousin twice-removed whose name Daemon had never bothered learning. The boy was breathing hard, sun-scorched, wide-eyed with the particular terror of a man bearing unexpected news to impatient lords.
"My lords—" he gasped. "Ships. Northern-built. Three of them. Just beached on the southern shore."
Daemon's hand stilled over the map. "Northern?"
"Aye, my prince. Longships. Wolf-prowed. Soldiers disembarking now. Maybe... two hundred men? Hard to say. They're—" The boy swallowed. "They're moving like they own the fucking island, begging your pardon."
Corlys and Daemon exchanged a look.
"Northerners," Corlys said slowly, as if tasting the word. "Here. In the Stepstones."
"Starks don't sail," Daemon muttered. "Starks don't even *like* water. They breed in snow and dirt and..." He trailed off, something calculating sliding behind his eyes. "Did they fly a banner?"
"Aye, my prince. Grey field. Black wolf beneath a pale blue comet."
Daemon went very still.
"A *comet*?"
"Aye."
"Not the Stark direwolf. A comet."
"Above the wolf, my prince. Like it's—I don't know—chasing it? Or being chased by it?"
Corlys had moved to the tent entrance, squinting toward the southern beaches. Daemon followed. The afternoon sun hammered down on black stone and white surf. And there—impossible, absurd, *real*—were the ships.
Northern-built, no question. Clinker-hulled, high-prowed, utterly wrong for these waters. Three of them beached like sleeping dragons. Men were disembarking in disciplined columns: hard-faced, fur-cloaked despite the heat, moving with the kind of exhausted precision that spoke of weeks at sea.
At their head walked a single figure.
Even at this distance, there was something *wrong* about him. Not in the way he moved—though he moved like death on legs—but in the *space* around him. Men gave him room. Instinctively. As if proximity was dangerous.
"Get me closer," Daemon said quietly.
---
They rode down to the beaches on horseback—Daemon on a grey courser, Corlys on a bay, flanked by a dozen Velaryon guards. The Northern column had halted fifty yards from the waterline, arrayed in loose formation. Shields and spears, mostly. Some axes. Not an army. A *warband*.
The commander stood at their center.
Daemon saw him clearly now.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Built like a man who'd been poured into armor and left to harden. His plate was dark—almost black—etched with markings Daemon couldn't read from this distance. A grey-white fur cloak snapped in the salt wind. No helm. Long dark hair tied back. A beard, close-trimmed. Eyes the color of Northern winter.
And behind him, sitting with impossible stillness, was a *direwolf*.
Not a large dog. Not a fucking *hound*. A *direwolf*. Black as sin, big as a pony, with eyes that caught the light wrong.
"Seven bloody hells," Corlys whispered.
Daemon said nothing. He was staring at the man. The man was staring back.
There was something about his eyes. Something that made Daemon think of deep water. Of frozen lakes. Of things that watched from shadows.
They closed the distance. Forty yards. Thirty. Twenty.
The Northern soldiers didn't move. Didn't whisper. They simply *stood*, like carved stone warriors given breath.
Ten yards.
Daemon reined in. Corlys stopped beside him.
The silence stretched. Surf and wind and the distant cry of gulls.
Finally, Daemon spoke. His voice carried—pitched for command, touched with just enough royal arrogance to remind everyone present who wore the dragon on their chest.
"You're a long way from snow and sheep, wolf. I don't recall inviting Northerners to *my* war."
The man didn't react. Didn't bristle. Didn't even blink.
When he spoke, his voice was Low. Measured. The accent pure North—clipped consonants, rolling r's, a coldness that had nothing to do with temperature.
"Prince Daemon. Lord Corlys." A nod to each. Respectful but not *deferential*. "I'm Harion Stark. Cadet branch. Winterfell sent no one. I came because I heard you needed men who don't run from blood."
"Stark." Daemon tasted the name. "I know every major House in the North. I don't know *you*."
"You wouldn't." Harion's expression didn't change. "I'm not a lord. Not an heir. I'm the one they send beyond the Wall when something needs killing."
Corlys leaned forward slightly in his saddle. "Beyond the Wall. You're a ranger?"
"No."
"Then what?"
Harion's eyes—gods, those *eyes*—shifted to Corlys. There was something predatory in the look. Something that assessed weight, threat, value in an instant.
"I'm what the Night's Watch calls when rangers go missing and don't come back."
The direwolf behind him rose to its feet. Slowly. Deliberately. It moved to Harion's side and sat again, eyes locked on Daemon's horse. The courser sidestepped nervously. Daemon tightened his reins.
"That's a direwolf," Corlys said unnecessarily.
"His name's Padfoot."
"Direwolves haven't been south of the Neck in—"
"A century. I know." Harion's hand dropped to the wolf's head. The beast leaned into the touch. "Padfoot doesn't care about history."
Daemon was studying him now. Truly studying him. The armor. The cloak. The sword strapped across his back—long, dark-hilted, wrong somehow. And his hands. His *hands*.
The gauntlets.
They were steel, but carved with markings that *glowed*. Faintly. Blue-white. Like foxfire. Like frozen starlight.
"What," Daemon said slowly, "are you?"
Harion met his eyes.
For a moment—just a *heartbeat*—Daemon felt something he hadn't felt in years.
*Unease*.
Not fear. Daemon Targaryen didn't fear men. But this wasn't a man. Not entirely. There was something *else* looking out from behind those grey eyes. Something vast. Something cold.
"I'm a sword," Harion said simply. "You point me. I cut. That's all you need to know."
"And what," Corlys interjected, "do you want in return?"
"Glory."
The word hung in the salt air.
"Glory," Daemon repeated.
"Aye." Harion's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his eyes—something hungry. "I want men to remember my name when winter comes. I want songs. I want fear. I want every pirate and slaver between here and Asshai to piss themselves when they hear 'Stark.'"
He took a step forward. Padfoot moved with him, a shadow given teeth.
"You're fighting a war of attrition. Bleeding yourself in caves. Wasting time." His voice dropped. Cold. Certain. "I can end it. Give me a target. Give me a week. I'll bring you the Crabfeeder's head in a box made of ice."
Silence.
One of the Velaryon guards laughed nervously. The sound died when nobody else joined in.
Daemon tilted his head, studying this mad Northern boy-man who'd sailed across the world to offer murder as a gift.
"You're confident."
"I'm *experienced*."
"You're what—eighteen? Twenty?"
"Eighteen."
"And you think you can do what three years of siege warfare hasn't accomplished."
"I don't think. I *know*." Harion's eyes hadn't left Daemon's. "You fight with soldiers. I fight with something older."
"And what's that?"
Harion's gauntlets pulsed—a flicker of blue light, there and gone.
"Winter."
The word fell like a stone into still water.
Daemon felt it. The *weight* of it. The certainty. This wasn't bravado. This wasn't youth or stupidity or desperation.
This was a predator offering its services.
Corlys cleared his throat. "You brought two hundred men. The Crabfeeder has thousands dug into fortified positions. Even with your... wolf... the mathematics don't favor—"
"I didn't bring two hundred men to fight." Harion's voice was flat. Final. "I brought them to hold ground after I'm done hunting."
"Hunting," Daemon echoed.
"Aye."
"Alone."
"No." Harion glanced back over his shoulder.
For the first time, Daemon noticed the birds.
High above, circling in lazy spirals: a white owl. A pale falcon. Too high to be coincidence. Too coordinated to be chance.
Daemon's eyes narrowed. "You're a *warg*."
Harion's expression flickered—surprise, then something like respect.
"You know the word."
"I read." Daemon's voice was cold. "Old legends. Children's stories. Skinchangers. Beastmasters." He leaned forward in his saddle. "Myths."
"Myths don't bleed."
"Show me."
Harion held his gaze for a long moment.
Then his eyes *changed*.
The pupils dilated—too wide, too fast—swallowing the grey until his eyes were black pits ringed in silver. His breathing slowed. Stopped.
Padfoot's head snapped up. The direwolf's eyes went white.
The owl above shrieked once.
And Daemon felt it.
A *pressure*. Behind his eyes. In his chest. Like being watched from inside his own skull. Like something vast and cold had turned its attention toward him and decided—just this once—not to bite.
His horse screamed and reared.
Corlys's bay danced sideways, ears flat.
Every horse in the Velaryon guard panicked at once—stamping, wild-eyed, fighting their riders.
And then it stopped.
Harion's eyes cleared. The black receded. Grey returned.
Padfoot sat down.
The horses calmed.
Daemon's heart was hammering. He forced his expression neutral, forced his hands to stop shaking.
"Fuck," he breathed.
Harion said nothing.
Corlys was pale. "What in the name of the Seven—"
"I told you," Harion said quietly. "I don't fight alone."
Daemon stared at him. This impossible Northern boy with his impossible wolf and his impossible *magic*.
And then—because Daemon Targaryen was many things, but a fool wasn't one of them—he smiled.
It was a wolf's smile.
"You want glory, Stark?"
"Aye."
"You want your name in songs?"
"Aye."
Daemon leaned back in his saddle. The smile widened.
"Then welcome to the Stepstones. Let's see if winter can drown."
---
The Northern camp rose with unnatural efficiency.
Daemon watched from the ridge above, wine cup in hand, as Harion's two hundred moved like a single organism. No shouting. No confusion. Just silent, practiced motion—tents rising, firepits dug, perimeter stakes driven into black stone with rhythmic precision.
"They're too quiet," Corlys murmured beside him.
"Noticed that, did you?"
"Your men sing. Drink. Fight each other. *Live*." The Sea Snake gestured toward the Northern encampment. "These ones barely speak. It's like watching—"
"Corpses that haven't realized they're dead yet?" Daemon took a long pull of wine. It was Dornish red, probably looted. It tasted like violence. "They're Northerners. They're always like this. Grim as gravestones and twice as talkative."
"These are different."
Daemon didn't argue. Because Corlys was right.
He'd fought beside Northerners before—younger sons seeking glory, rangers who'd drifted south, the occasional hedge knight with a direwolf sigil and delusions of Stark blood. They'd been hard men, cold men, but still *men*. They laughed. They complained. They existed in recognizable ways.
Harion's soldiers did none of these things.
They moved through their tasks with the efficiency of long practice and the silence of monks. When they did speak, it was in low voices—barely more than whispers—and always in that thick Northern burr that made every word sound like a threat.
And they kept looking at their commander.
Not with fear. Not with worship. With *connection*. Like dogs checking where their master had gone. Like they could feel him even when they couldn't see him.
"Where is the boy?" Corlys asked.
Daemon scanned the camp. It took him longer than it should have.
Harion Stark stood at the northern edge of the encampment, facing away from his men, utterly still. Padfoot sat beside him in that eerie mirrored stillness. Both of them faced the interior of Bloodstone—the rocky, brush-choked wasteland that separated the beaches from the Crabfeeder's territory.
"He's been standing there for an hour," Daemon said quietly. "Hasn't moved. Neither has the wolf."
"What's he looking at?"
"Nothing. Everything. How the fuck should I know?"
A Velaryon lieutenant approached, young and nervous. "My lords. The Northern commander requests an audience. Says he has... intelligence regarding Crabfeeder positions."
Daemon and Corlys exchanged glances.
"Tell him we'll meet in the war pavilion—"
"Begging your pardon, Prince Daemon, but he says it has to be now. And..." The boy swallowed. "He says you need to come to him. Something about his... his *companions* not liking crowds."
"His companions."
"Aye, my prince."
Daemon felt something cold slide down his spine. "The wolf."
"Among others, my prince."
Silence.
"Among *others*," Corlys repeated flatly.
The lieutenant nodded miserably.
Daemon drained his cup and threw it to the sand. "Seven fucking hells. Fine. Let's go meet the menagerie."
---
They found Harion exactly where Daemon had last seen him—standing at the camp's edge, looking north. Padfoot remained at his side. The owl and falcon still circled overhead.
But now there were *more*.
Daemon saw them as he approached and his hand went instinctively to Dark Sister's hilt.
To Harion's left, barely ten feet away, lay a creature that had no business existing outside the deep North. It was huge—perhaps eight feet long, lean and corded with muscle beneath tawny-grey fur marked with black rosettes. Its tail flicked lazily. Yellow eyes tracked Daemon's approach with predatory focus.
"Shadowcat," Corlys breathed. "That's a fucking *shadowcat*."
The creature's lips peeled back, revealing fangs as long as daggers.
"Midnight," Harion said without turning. His voice was soft. Conversational. "Easy, girl. They're not prey."
The shadowcat subsided. Barely. It continued to watch them with the focused intensity of a beast deciding whether to kill now or later.
And to Harion's right—
"Mother of—"
The bear was *massive*.
Not the brown bears of the Riverlands or the black bears of the wolfswood. This was a mountain bear, a creature of legend, standing on all fours and still nearly as tall as a horse. White-grey fur rippled over muscle and bone. Its head swung toward them—enormous, scarred, one ear torn to tatters.
It made a sound.
Not a growl. A *rumble*. Deep enough to feel in your chest. Daemon's hand tightened on his sword hilt.
"Fury," Harion said, still not turning. "Sit."
The bear sat.
It shouldn't have worked. Bears didn't obey commands like trained hounds. But this one folded its haunches and sat, massive paws planted in the black sand, watching Daemon and Corlys with dark, disturbingly *intelligent* eyes.
"You brought a shadowcat and a mountain bear," Daemon said slowly, "to the Stepstones."
"I brought my family," Harion corrected. He finally turned to face them. His eyes were grey again—fully human—but there was something exhausted in his expression. "They go where I go."
"That's not a family. That's a—" Corlys struggled for words. "That's a *pack*. A *collection*. That's—"
"Unnatural?" Harion's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "Aye. I've heard."
He moved then, walking toward them with that same economical grace. Padfoot rose and followed. So did the shadowcat—fluid, deadly, silent. The bear lumbered behind, shaking the ground with each step.
Daemon fought the urge to back away.
Four beasts. Four predators. Moving in perfect coordination around this Northern boy like he was their sun.
"You're a warg," Daemon said. It wasn't a question anymore. "How many can you—"
"Five at once. More if I'm not fighting. Right now I have seven bonded." Harion gestured upward. "You've seen Hedwig and Kira. The owl and falcon. There's also a snow-eagle named Winter, but she's ranging inland. Scouting."
"Seven." Corlys's voice was faint. "Seven animals. Simultaneously."
"The number varies. Depends on how much I'm willing to hurt."
"Hurt?"
Harion held up his hands. The gauntlets pulsed faintly—blue-white light dancing across the carved runes. "These help. Without them, warging more than two or three would burn me from the inside. With them..." He flexed his fingers. "I can manage seven before I start bleeding."
"Bleeding," Daemon repeated.
"From the nose. Eyes. Sometimes ears." Harion said it the way another man might mention a mild headache. "The Old Gods gave me a gift. Gifts have costs."
He stopped ten feet away. Close enough to speak comfortably. Far enough that Daemon didn't feel immediately threatened.
The beasts arranged themselves around him.
Padfoot to his right. Midnight to his left. Fury behind, looming like a furry mountain. Above, the birds circled.
Daemon had fought in a dozen battles. Had faced men who wanted to kill him, men who wanted to break him, men who'd looked at him with hatred and fear and rage.
None of them had made him feel what he felt now.
*Small*.
"You wanted intelligence," Harion said. "I've been watching the interior since we landed. Kira and Hedwig have been ranging inland for the last two hours. I know where the Crabfeeder's patrols are. I know which caves are occupied. I know where he's storing supplies."
Corlys found his voice. "Two hours of bird-sight isn't enough to—"
"It is when you see through multiple sets of eyes at once." Harion's tone was patient. Almost gentle. "Hedwig flies high—sees the big picture. Kira flies low—sees the details. I stitch them together. Build a map in my head. It's not perfect, but it's better than sending men to die gathering the same information."
Daemon studied him. This boy who spoke of burning and bleeding and warging like a maester discussing crop rotation.
"Show us."
Harion nodded. He knelt, drawing a knife from his belt—simple steel, well-used—and began scratching lines in the sand.
"The Crabfeeder's pulled most of his forces back to three main positions." He drew quickly, efficiently. "Here, here, and here. Caves in each location. Supplies coming in from the eastern beaches—you've been blockading the west, but he's still getting shipments from Tyrosh."
"We know that," Corlys said.
"Do you know they're landing supplies every third night? Do you know the shipments come two hours before dawn? Do you know there's only a twenty-man guard at the eastern beach because they think you're too busy bleeding in the western caves to notice?"
Silence.
Daemon crouched beside the sand-map. "You saw all this. In two hours."
"Hedwig and Kira saw it. I interpreted it." Harion continued drawing. "Main force is here—Torturer's Deep, like you thought. But he's got a secondary position here, in the Gullet Caves. Hundred men, maybe more. Supplies for a month. He's planning to make you bleed for every inch."
"And you propose what? That we split our forces and—"
"No." Harion's voice went flat. Cold. "You keep doing what you're doing. Keep him focused on the western approaches. Keep him thinking you're the threat."
He looked up. Met Daemon's eyes.
"While I go hunting."
The shadowcat made a sound—low, eager. Her tail lashed once.
"Midnight loves caves," Harion said softly. "Tight spaces. Darkness. Prey that can't see her coming."
"You're talking about raiding Crabfeeder positions with a *cat*."
"And a wolf. And a bear." Harion's expression didn't change. "And me."
"That's suicide."
"That's war." He stood, sliding the knife back into its sheath. "You wanted my service. This is what I do. I don't hold ground. I don't form shield walls. I *hunt*. Give me a target, give me three days, and I'll bring you bodies and fear."
Daemon stood as well. They were nearly of a height—the prince perhaps an inch taller, but the Stark broader through the shoulders.
"You're not doing this for glory," Daemon said suddenly. "That's horseshit. Men who want glory don't sail to the arse-end of the world with a fucking *menagerie*. So what do you really want?"
Harion was quiet for a long moment.
When he spoke, his voice was softer. Almost human.
"I want to become something the North needs." He glanced at Padfoot. The wolf's ears flicked forward. "My father wants me to be a lord. My uncle wants me to be a guardian. I just want to be *useful*. And useful men need reputations. They need stories. They need—"
"Fear," Daemon finished.
"Aye."
The prince smiled. It was a terrible smile. A smile that had preceded burnings and executions and the kind of violence that ended bloodlines.
"I like you, wolf."
"I don't need you to like me."
"No. But it helps." Daemon turned to Corlys. "What do you think?"
The Sea Snake was staring at the shadowcat. The shadowcat was staring back. Neither blinked.
"I think," Corlys said slowly, "that we've spent three years trying to dig the Crabfeeder out of his holes with siege tactics and attrition. I think we've lost thousands of men to traps and disease and slow, grinding horror." He finally tore his gaze away from the cat. "I think maybe it's time to try something *else*."
"That's not an answer."
"Yes it is." Corlys met his eyes. "Let him hunt."
Daemon considered. The wine was warm in his belly. The sun was setting behind them, painting the black stone beaches in orange and gold. Somewhere in the distance, men were dying badly. They'd been dying badly for three years.
He looked at Harion. At the beasts surrounding him. At this impossible Northern boy who'd sailed across the world with his monsters to offer murder as a gift.
"Three days," Daemon said. "You've got three days. Hit the eastern supply lines. Kill anyone you find. If you can take prisoners, fine. If not, bodies will do." He leaned closer. "But if you die stupidly and make me look like a fool for trusting you—"
"I won't."
"—I'll piss on your grave and tell everyone you got killed by a fucking *crab*."
Harion's mouth twitched. It might have been a smile. It was hard to tell with Northerners.
"Understood, my prince."
"And if you survive—"
"When."
"—*if* you survive, we'll talk about the Gullet Caves."
"And after that, Torturer's Deep."
"Confident little shit, aren't you?"
"I'm a practical little shit." Harion looked at the shadowcat. Then at the bear. Then back at Daemon. "You have dragons. I have winter. Between us, we'll bury the Crabfeeder so deep even his mother won't remember his name."
He turned and walked away.
The beasts followed.
Padfoot first. Then Midnight, fluid as smoke. Finally Fury, the enormous bear lumbering along like a mobile avalanche. They moved through the camp—Northern soldiers parting without a word, without surprise, as if traveling mountain bears were perfectly normal—and disappeared into the darkness beyond the firelight.
Above, the owl and falcon wheeled once and flew north.
Daemon and Corlys stood in silence.
"He's mad," Corlys said eventually.
"Yes."
"Completely, utterly mad."
"Yes."
"But gods help me, I think he can do it."
Daemon didn't answer. He was watching the darkness where Harion had vanished, thinking about direwolves and shadowcats and the way the boy's eyes had gone black as he'd proven—*proven*—that magic wasn't dead, wasn't legend, wasn't safe.
"The North remembers," Daemon murmured.
"What?"
"The Stark words. 'Winter is Coming.' 'The North Remembers.'" He smiled. It was not a kind smile. "We thought they meant memory. Grudges. History."
"And?"
"They meant *this*." He gestured toward the northern darkness. "They meant boys who go beyond the Wall and come back *wrong*. They meant magic that never died, just slept. They meant—"
A howl split the night.
Long. Low. Mournful. The kind of sound that made horses scream and men check their weapons. It came from the interior of the island—from the dark places where the Crabfeeder's men waited in caves and prayed to foreign gods.
It was answered by another howl.
Then a third sound—not a howl, but a *scream*. Feline. Furious. Full of murder.
The Northern camp didn't react. The soldiers went about their business as if hunting cries in the darkness were perfectly normal background noise.
Daemon's men, though.
Daemon's men went very, very quiet.
"Well," Corlys said softly. "I suppose the Crabfeeder's about to have a very bad night."
"Nights," Daemon corrected. He turned and began walking back toward his own camp. "Plural. Because that mad Northern bastard isn't going to stop until he's painted these islands red."
Behind them, another howl echoed across Bloodstone.
And in the darkness, something with too many eyes and too many teeth began to hunt.
---
## *Bloodstone Interior, Night of the First Moon*
The Crabfeeder's men knew these caves.
They'd held them for three years against Daemon's siege, against Corlys's blockades, against fire and steel and Targaryen fury. The caves were their fortress, their sanctuary, their *advantage*. In the narrow dark, dragons couldn't reach. In the twisting passages, armies couldn't form. In the dripping silence, they could hear enemies coming from a hundred yards away.
Tonight, they heard nothing.
Petyr—a Tyroshi sellsword with twenty years of killing behind him—stood watch at the eastern supply cave's entrance. He'd drawn the midnight-to-dawn shift, which meant four hours of boredom punctuated by the occasional rat and the persistent drip of water from stalactites. Behind him, deeper in the cave system, twenty men slept or gambled or sharpened blades.
The supplies had come in two hours before dawn, right on schedule. Grain. Salted pork. Arrows. Enough to hold for another month while Daemon Targaryen bled himself dry against the western positions.
Petyr yawned and scratched at his beard.
The night was wrong.
He couldn't say *how* it was wrong, but thirty years of survival instinct—five in these godsforsaken islands—was screaming that something had *changed*. The jungle sounds had stopped. No insects. No night birds. Even the wind seemed to have died.
Just silence.
Heavy. Waiting.
"Petyr."
He turned. Marro—a younger Myrish man, good with a crossbow—stood in the cave mouth, squinting into the darkness.
"You hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"Nothing. That's the problem." Marro's hand was on his crossbow. "Something's out there."
"Probably just a—"
The scream cut the night like a blade through silk.
Not human. Not quite animal. Something *between*. High and furious and full of rage. It came from the jungle, from the darkness, from *everywhere*.
Petyr's sword was in his hand before he registered moving.
"ARMS!" he bellowed. "TO ARMS! WE'RE UNDER—"
The shadowcat hit Marro at a dead sprint.
She came out of the darkness like smoke given teeth—tawny-grey fur, black rosettes, yellow eyes blazing. Four hundred pounds of muscle and fury traveling at thirty miles per hour. Marro didn't have time to scream. The impact folded him backward. Fangs found his throat. His crossbow clattered on stone.
The scream—the real scream, the human scream—came after.
It lasted three seconds.
Petyr was already running. Into the cave. Into the *light*. Away from whatever nightmare had just materialized from the jungle. Behind him, Midnight made a sound like tearing canvas and dragged Marro's body into the darkness.
"CAVE ENTRANCE!" Petyr was screaming now, all professionalism gone. "SOMETHING IN THE DARK! SOMETHING—"
Men were scrambling awake. Grabbing weapons. Forming up by training and terror.
"What is it?"
"How many?"
"FORM UP! SPEARS FORWARD!"
Twenty men. Professionals. Killers. They'd held these caves against worse. They formed a line—spears bristling, shields overlapping, crossbows in the second rank.
The cave mouth was a black rectangle of night.
Nothing moved.
"Petyr, what the *fuck* did you see?"
"Cat," Petyr gasped. He was shaking. "Big cat. Killed Marro. Tore his throat out. It was—gods, it was *huge*—"
"A cat? A fucking *cat*? We're two hundred miles from—"
The direwolf walked into the light.
Just *walked*. Not charging. Not attacking. Simply entering the cave mouth as if it owned the space, as if twenty armed men were insects beneath notice.
It was enormous. Black as tar. Eyes reflecting torchlight like mirrors. It stopped ten feet from the spear line, sat down, and *watched*.
"Mother have mercy," someone whispered.
"That's a direwolf."
"Can't be. They're extinct. They're—"
"THAT'S A FUCKING DIREWOLF!"
The wolf's ears flicked forward. Its mouth opened—revealing teeth like daggers—and it *smiled*.
Then it howled.
The sound filled the cave. Echoed off stone. Vibrated in chests and skulls. It wasn't loud—it was *everywhere*. Primal. The kind of sound that made your hindbrain scream *PREDATOR* and your legs want to run.
No one ran.
Professional soldiers. Paid killers. They held the line.
"CROSSBOWS! KILL THAT FUCKING—"
The bear charged from the left.
It came from a side passage they'd thought too narrow for anything larger than a man. Came in a avalanche of white-grey fur and rage and *mass*. Eight hundred pounds moving at twenty miles per hour.
The spear line shattered.
Fury—because of course it had a *name*, of course the nightmare had a *name*—hit the formation like a boulder through parchment. Men screamed. Spears snapped. Shields crumpled. The bear rose on hind legs—nine feet tall—and roared.
The sound was apocalyptic.
Men broke.
Training failed. Discipline failed. They ran deeper into the caves, into the *darkness*, away from teeth and claws and the certain knowledge that they were *prey*.
And that's when Harion Stark walked into the light.
---
He moved like death wearing a man's shape.
Dark armor. Fur cloak. The sword across his back still sheathed. His gauntlets pulsed with cold blue light, bright now, almost painful to look at. His eyes were black—pupils swallowed by endless dark—and his expression was empty. Serene. A man watching from a great distance.
Behind him, Padfoot rose and moved to his right. To his left, Midnight padded into the cave mouth, blood still slick on her muzzle. Behind him, Fury dropped to all fours, breathing hard, gore on her claws.
Three beasts. One man. The cave entrance sealed.
Petyr was still alive. Pressed against the wall. Sword forgotten. He stared at Harion with the wide-eyed incomprehension of a man whose understanding of reality had just been torn in half.
"You," he croaked. "What... what *are* you?"
Harion's eyes found him. The black pits narrowed slightly.
When he spoke, his voice was soft. Almost kind.
"I'm the reason men fear the dark."
He drew the sword.
Winter's Fang came free with a sound like wind through frozen branches. The blade caught torchlight and seemed to *drink* it—dark grey, almost black, etched with glowing blue runes that pulsed in time with the gauntlets.
Frost crept across the cave floor where he stood.
"Run," Harion said gently. "Tell your friends. Tell the Crabfeeder. Tell anyone who'll listen."
Petyr didn't move. Couldn't move. Fear had frozen him more completely than any ice.
Harion tilted his head. "No? Then watch."
He moved.
---
Northerners don't fence. They don't duel. They don't dance.
They *execute*.
Harion covered the distance to Petyr in three strides. The sword came up—not fast, not slow, just *inevitable*—and took the sellsword's head at the neck. Clean. Efficient. The body folded. The head rolled.
Frost spread across the corpse. Ice crystals formed in the pooling blood.
Deeper in the cave, the surviving men had formed a desperate knot of spears and shields. Maybe fifteen left. They'd backed into a wider chamber, using the walls to protect their flanks.
"TOGETHER!" someone was screaming. "STAY TOGETHER! IT'S JUST ONE MAN! ONE FUCKING—"
Midnight came from above.
Shadowcats climb. Everyone forgets that. They think of them as ground predators, ambush hunters that strike from cover. They forget that shadowcats are *cats*, and cats go *up*.
She'd circled through side passages, climbed to a ledge twenty feet overhead, and launched herself into the center of the formation.
Four hundred pounds of predator dropped into the shield wall from above.
Men screamed. Bones broke. She was teeth and claws and fury—ripping, tearing, *killing*—moving too fast to track. A man raised his sword. She took his arm at the elbow. Another thrust with a spear. She twisted, and his spine snapped like kindling.
Five seconds.
Seven men dead or dying.
Then Padfoot was there, coming in low from the flank. The direwolf fought like a force of nature—all power, no finesse. Jaws that could crush bone. Claws that could shred mail. He hit the line like a battering ram and *bore a man down*, tearing out his throat before the others could react.
And then Fury arrived.
The bear didn't hunt. The bear *obliterated*.
She reared up, roared once, and *swatted* a man wearing full mail armor. The impact launched him fifteen feet. He hit the cave wall with a sound like a sack of wet grain and didn't move again.
The formation collapsed.
Men scattered. Running. Screaming. Dying.
Harion walked through the carnage like a man strolling through a garden.
Winter's Fang rose and fell. Rose and fell. Each strike economical. Final. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just cold, brutal efficiency. Men tried to fight. They died. Men tried to run. They died slower.
The blade was singing—that high, cold note like wind through a frozen cave. Each strike left frost. Each cut froze blood in veins.
One man—braver or more desperate than the rest—charged Harion from behind. Sword raised. Death cry on his lips.
Harion didn't turn.
Hedwig—the snowy owl—dove from a ceiling crevice.
Talons raked across the man's eyes. He screamed, blinded, stumbling. Harion turned then, moved inside the wild sword swing, and drove Winter's Fang through the man's chest.
The runes flared brilliant blue.
Ice spread from the wound—crystallizing blood, freezing flesh, crawling across skin like living frost. The man's scream froze in his throat. His eyes went white. He shattered when he hit the ground—not collapsed, *shattered*—breaking into frozen pieces like dropped glass.
Silence.
Heavy. Final.
Harion stood in the center of the cave, surrounded by bodies. Blood pooled around his boots. Frost glittered on stone and corpse alike. His eyes were still black pits, his expression still empty.
Padfoot was breathing hard, muzzle red. Midnight cleaned her claws with clinical precision. Fury sat on her haunches, fur matted with gore, watching the darkness for more prey.
Above, Hedwig circled once and landed on Harion's shoulder. The owl's talons—still bloody—gripped his pauldron. She turned her head 180 degrees and hooted softly.
Harion's eyes cleared.
The black receded. Grey returned. His pupils shrank to normal human proportions.
He swayed slightly—just a heartbeat—and blood ran from his nose in twin streams. He wiped it away with the back of his gauntlet, smearing red across blue-glowing runes.
"Good," he whispered. Voice hoarse. "Good work."
He looked at the carnage. Twenty men. All dead. It had taken perhaps three minutes.
"Search the cave," he said to the darkness. To himself. To the beasts. "Find the supplies. We burn what we can't carry."
Midnight slipped into the shadows. Padfoot padded deeper into the cave system. Fury lumbered after them.
Harion stood alone in the flickering torchlight, surrounded by death, and allowed himself one long, shuddering breath.
His hands were shaking.
The gauntlets pulsed—irregular now, struggling to contain the magic burning through him.
*Too much*, part of him whispered. *Too many at once. Five active bonds. You're bleeding.*
He wiped his nose again. More blood. His vision was blurring at the edges.
"Just two more nights," he murmured. "Two more, and we move on the Gullet Caves."
Hedwig hooted. A question.
"I'm fine," Harion lied.
He wasn't fine. His hands were numb. His chest ached. The cold was inside him now—not just around him, but *inside*, spreading through blood and bone like ice on a winter lake.
*This is the cost*, he reminded himself. *Glory has teeth. Power has prices.*
He sheathed Winter's Fang. The blade resisted—it always resisted now, as if it didn't want to sleep—but finally slid home.
The frost around his feet began to melt.
From deeper in the cave came sounds: Padfoot's claws on stone. Midnight's low growl of satisfaction. The crash of crates being overturned.
Harion walked toward the sounds, leaving bloody bootprints in his wake.
Behind him, the bodies began to freeze.
---
## *Dawn — Daemon's Command Tent*
Daemon was drinking breakfast when the runner arrived.
"My prince—" The boy was out of breath, wild-eyed. "The eastern caves. The supply position. It's—"
"Under attack?" Daemon didn't look up from his maps.
"No, my prince. It's *gone*."
That got his attention. "Gone."
"Aye. We sent a patrol at first light. Found..." The runner swallowed. "Bodies. Twenty men. All dead. Torn apart. Frozen. The supplies are ash. The caves are..." He struggled for words. "They're painted red, my prince. Walls. Floor. Ceiling. And there's—there's a message."
Corlys had entered during this speech. "A message."
"Carved into the stone above the entrance. Northern runes. One of the men—he's got some Old Tongue—he says it translates to..." The runner took a breath. "'*Winter walked here*.'"
Silence.
Daemon and Corlys exchanged glances.
"Where's Stark?" Daemon asked quietly.
"Returned to camp two hours before dawn. He's sleeping. The beasts are..." The runner made a helpless gesture. "The wolf's standing guard outside his tent. The cat and the bear are..." He paused. "They're cleaning themselves. Like nothing happened. Like they didn't just..."
He trailed off.
"Like they didn't just kill twenty professional soldiers in the dark," Daemon finished. He stood. "Show me."
---
## *The Eastern Caves — Mid-Morning*
The smell hit first.
Blood. Shit. Fear-sweat. And underneath, something else—something cold and sharp and *wrong*.
The cave mouth was exactly as described. Twenty bodies, or what was left of them. Some torn apart. Some frozen solid. Some *both*. The walls were painted in arterial spray. The floor was a lake of half-frozen blood.
Daemon walked through the carnage with the detached interest of a man who'd seen worse. Barely.
"Seven hells," Corlys breathed.
Above the entrance, carved deep into the stone in runes that still glowed faintly blue:
***Ghis nargh hûl dûm***
"Winter walked here," Daemon translated. His voice was soft. Almost reverent. "That arrogant Northern *bastard*."
"This wasn't battle," Corlys said. He was staring at a corpse that had been frozen mid-scream. "This was *slaughter*. This was—"
"A message." Daemon turned to face his men—soldiers, sailors, officers who'd seen three years of grinding warfare. They were pale. Some were shaking. "This is what the wolf wanted. Not victory. Not prisoners. *Fear*."
He smiled.
It was a terrible smile.
"And by the gods, he's succeeding."
"My prince," one of the officers ventured. "Should we... should we pull him back? This is—"
"Effective," Daemon interrupted. "This is *effective*. The Crabfeeder's going to hear about this by noon. Every position, every cave, every terrified sellsword is going to know that something's hunting them. Something that kills in the dark and leaves corpses frozen solid in the summer heat."
"But—"
"But *nothing*." Daemon's voice went hard. "For three years we've been bleeding ourselves dry trying to dig these bastards out of their holes. For three years they've felt *safe* in their caves. Now?" He gestured at the carnage. "Now they know nowhere is safe. Now they know the darkness isn't their friend anymore. Now they know that winter has come to the Stepstones, and winter *hunts*."
He turned back to the cave.
"Let him work."
---
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